


Turn This

by musiclily88



Series: Do You Feel This? [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dinner Party, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Smutty, gentle angst, hermione is an enigma to me sometimes, lots of characters talking this was hard to write why did I do this, real gay and cute, sorta innocent actually, yes I made up some of their professions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: They're an odd sort of pair





	1. 1

“This is bollocks,” Malfoy mutters, accepting his glass of champagne from the bartender without comment.

Neville looks around quickly before realizing that Draco is speaking to him. “What is?”

“All of this.” He gestures to the splendor of the open field, the fairy lights, the actual fairies shedding their light upon the evening.

“They’re happy,” Neville says, referring to Luna and Ginny, which he presumes is natural given he’s at their wedding. “I think that’s nice.” Neville raises a brow, picking up his lager from the bartop.

“Gods, you’re so fucking soft.” Draco huffs out a soft sigh.

“Better’n bitter as sin,” Neville counters, sipping his drink.

“You know nothing about me.” Draco rolls his eyes.

“Same to be said of you, mate,” Neville says with a snort, walking back towards his table.

 

Ginny and Luna are beautiful, and they look fragile. Ethereal. Something catches in Neville’s throat during their first dance, and he excuses himself from his table-mates so he can go get another drink. He stumbles into Ron and Charlie and Bill at one point, all of them pissed and laughing, all of them talking about adventures and beauty.

-

Neville wakes up in his own bed with an unfamiliar body beside him. More confusingly, it’s a male body, and it’s blond. Granted, Neville’s no stranger to his own bisexuality or his vast desires—however, he is a stranger to actually bringing people home, usually.

Or so it would seem, except after his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Neville sighs, trying to ignore his morning wood and his guest simultaneously.

“Hush, please. I’m horribly hungover.”

“Wh—Malfoy?”

“Not what you were calling me last night, but okay,” Malfoy concedes, burying his head beneath the pillow.

“What was I—you know what, no. I can barely stand you at the best of times, I most certainly can’t handle you right now.”

“Me right now why?” Draco’s voice goes high and reedy, too high for Neville’s pounding head.

“You’re poncey and half-naked, that’s why.” Neville buries his face beneath his pillow and wonders which of them Apparated them back the previous night. Belatedly, he wonders why they’re not at the Manor or Malfoy’s other lavish accommodations.

“Again, this was not a problem for you last night.”

“Well last night I was drunk and so were you, and now we’re hungover and facing the harsh light of day.”

“You don’t like the light of day?” Malfoy asks, pulling the pillow from Neville’s face.

“It reflects a great deal off your very pale skin, and it is giving me a headache.”

Malfoy laughs at this, and the sound is bright in the morning air. Neville hasn’t ever heard Malfoy laugh like that, like maybe he can feel things besides cruelty and disapproval. Which is probably a tactless thought, but Neville has few kind thoughts for his childhood bullies. Most of the time. “I can remedy a headache readily enough,” Malfoy says with ease, moving out from beneath the sheet. “Where’s your tea?”

“You—you’re going to make me a cuppa?”

“I’m making both of us a cuppa, yes.”

“You know how to make tea?” Neville levers himself up on one arm, staring at Draco incredulously, who looks ludicrously beautiful in nothing but a pair of grey boxer-briefs.

“I’m guessing you take it milky with two sugars.”

“Who the hell are you and why have you Polyjuiced into Draco sodding Malfoy.” Neville’s throat has gone very, very dry.

“Bit pointless Polyjuicing into myself.” Malfoy rolls his eyes, plucking a dressing gown from the hook on Neville’s wall. “I’m nicking this for now. No peepshow for you.”

“How will I manage?” He launches out of bed and follows behind Malfoy, curious to see if he really does know how to make tea.

“Passing fair, I believe. You’ve come a long way since Hogwarts, after all.” Draco clatters around the kitchen, grabbing two mugs and flicking one hand to start the kettle wordlessly.

“Same could be said, I suppose,” Neville muses, tipping his head to one side, watching Draco rummage around the room looking for sugar.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Trust me, I’m aware.” Minutes later, he gratefully accepts the perfectly made cup of milky tea.

-

Eventually, when they’re both suitably awake and full of tea, Neville suggests they get brunch. “I could really use a Bloody Mary and an omlette,” he groans, stretching from his seat at the kitchen table. He sees that way that Draco’s eyes get wide at the movement, at the way his eyes flick up and down Neville’s torso. He stifles a smile. “Unless you’re ashamed of me?”

“Stop that,” Draco snaps, eyes bright. “Everyone saw me leaving the wedding with you last night, what on earth do I have to be ashamed of now?”

“That’s—not remarkably reassuring, but I see your point,” Neville concedes. Neville gestures down the hall. “Shower’s all yours if you want it. I’ll make some more tea.”

 

Their brunch is remarkably civil, considering Draco is a snarky arse and Neville’s still hungover. Draco’s wearing a grey jumper over black trousers, and his brogues are shiny. “Did—did you change clothes?”

“Well of course. I can’t be seen gallivanting out in just anything, can I? Certainly not the clothes I was in the previous night.” Draco smirks, raising one brow.

“You’re teasing me.” Neville crosses his arms. He’s changed too, naturally, into a tartan button-up and jeans.

“It really is too easy,” Draco notes, shrugging a shoulder. “Shall we?”

And together they go, side-along, without a protestation between them.

-

They talk so long that the afternoon sun glows gold in the window before Neville realizes what time it is. “Oh, I—I should go, actually.” He glances at his watch, feeling himself pale.

“Sure.” Draco’s face is impassive, his shoulders set tensely.

“I have to—” Neville sighs. “Whatever. Anyway. This was nice. We should do it again.”

Draco nods, just once. “We should.”

 

Neville visits his parents at St. Mungo’s, and he tells them nothing of consequence. They return the sentiment, although his mother does hand him a bubblegum wrapper.

-

He has Draco in his bed again later that week, pinned beneath him, their skin hot to the touch. His lips are at Draco’s neck and his hands are tangled in Draco’s hair. They’re both tipsy, not drunk, but their movements have an urgency to them that Neville doesn’t really know how to reconcile. Draco’s hands are tight on his hips, almost too tight. Neville reckons he’s going to have bruises later.

He slots one leg between Draco’s so he can get a little more friction and leverage. They’re not naked, not yet, but they’re each down to just pants—Draco in his grey boxer-briefs and Neville in red and yellow tartan boxers. They’re loose around his legs, and he feels just a little too skinny. He’s spent a lot of time trying to fix himself, to knit his war wounds back together in physical and psychic ways, and he’s had relative success. His body needed some time at St. Mungo’s and his brain needed a lot more time puttering in his back garden. He’s learned that he needs as much time in the sun and the dirt as he can rustle up, so his body has acquired a bit of a tan and his arms are muscular in a way they never were during school. It’s not that he wants to be celebrated for the ways he’s managed to survive, but a small part of him does want to be appreciated for the ways he’s changed.

The thing is, right now they’re not looking too closely at one another’s skin. Rather they’re reveling in sensation.

Draco palms Neville through his boxers, swearing under his breath. “Gods, you’re so fucking hard. Can I?”

Neville kisses the pulse point behind Draco’s left ear. “Can you what?” He asks this in part because he wants to know—wants clear expectations, as he’s still not entirely sure he trusts Draco not to be cruel. He asks also because he likes the thrill that goes through his spine when Draco confesses to what he hopes to do, just the slightest tinge of need and a whole lot of want behind his words.

Draco’s not embarrassed, though. He dips his fingers inside the waistband of Neville’s pants and thumbs the slit of his cock, sighing a bit like he’s dreaming. “Suck you.”

“Course you can,” Neville murmurs, yanking on Draco’s hair a bit.

“This—you’re different than I imagined.”

Neville pulls away sharply. “I don’t need any pity, if that’s—”

“Shove off,” Draco snaps, rolling his eyes, starting to pump his fist. Neville lets himself be reeled back in, just a bit. “I meant just what I said. You’re different than how I imagined.”

Neville tips his head forward, nosing against the crook of Draco’s shoulder. He smiles a little. “You imagined this, then? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Reading between the lines, are we?” He murmurs a spell and his hand slicks up, making Neville gasp. “Sorry, too cold?”

“Bit.”

Draco’s hand picks up speed, warming up the slick. Neville whines once in the back of his throat. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Neville agrees readily, clutching at Draco’s hair tightly.

“You need to let up on my hair a bit or you’ll rip out an entire chunk, love.”

Neville chuckles, backing away from Draco, tipping his head back onto the pillow. He feels Draco slide down his body, fully rucking down his boxers before licking at the tip of Neville’s cock. “Oh fucking hell.” Draco wraps his slick hand at the base of Neville’s dick before taking down as much of Neville’s length as he can. Neville swears again before fisting at some of Draco’s hair, gently this time. Draco starts to hum, the vibrations resonating through every one of Neville’s nerve endings.

Neville’s other hand drops to Draco’s shoulder, gripping down hard. For a few moments, the only sound in the room is Neville’s panting breath and Draco nearly gagging on his cock—and it’s that thought that pushes Neville over the edge. He comes down Draco’s throat, grunting quietly, his face flushing hot.

He catches his breath slowly, still gripping Draco’s shoulder. He hauls Draco up eventually, moving to kiss him languidly, fucked-out and sated. Draco pulls off first, panting a bit, writing on top of Neville. “Can you, um, could I—” he stumbles over the words, cheeks red and his chest heaving.

“I’ll take care of you.”

-

They go to get brunch again, although this time Draco orders indulgent French croissants and Neville gets a full English. They’re quieter, more subdued than before, but the conversation still flows with surprising ease.

At one point, Neville watches Draco flick his fringe a bit before smoothing down the cuff of his jumper. Then he looks up. 

They both fall silent as they realise they’re watching one another.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Neville asks, voice low so no one else can hear him.

“I’m always uncomfortable,” Draco counters, shrugging lightly. “Don’t give yourself too much credit for that.”

“All right.” Neville takes a breath, considering how to word his next statement. “I—you’re different than I imagined. Too, I mean.”

Draco’s face goes flat for a second, but then he corrects himself. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he says, rolling his eyes. He flicks at his fringe again.

“We didn’t really know one another, during school.”

“Didn’t really try to.”

“Why did you talk to me at the wedding?” Neville asks, tipping his head to the side. He genuinely wants to know, but he’s also watching the panoply of emotions slide over Draco’s face.

“You let me. And I wanted to. And you were there, and I was sort of confused as to why Luna invited me.”

“She’s a soft touch sometimes,” Neville notes quietly. “I think she’s the kindest person I know.”

“Undoubtedly,” Draco agrees. “Trauma’s made us all barmy, though, is the thing.”

Neville goes cold. “That’s not funny.”

He frowns. “I know it’s not, it’s bloody disgusting what was done to us.”

“No, I mean it’s not funny to say that to me. It’s just not.”

Draco’s brows furrow. “I’m not being funny! I don’t—there’s no way how to tell you how much I’m not taking the piss.”

Neville tosses his napkin onto the table and stands up. “Seems a bit like you are.” He tosses money onto the table and leaves the café, although he can hear Draco following close behind him.

“What the fuck, N?” Draco grabs his arm, rounding him about so that Neville’s back is to the wall and Draco’s crowding against him. “Here’s your fucking money, by the way, since I don’t want you to even pretend to feel indebted to me.” He shoves the coins into Neville’s pocket. “I have a tab here, plus this seemed like a good way to show me how much you’re grating on my emotions.”

“What the fuck?” Neville shoves once against Draco’s shoulder.

“You think I know nothing of trauma?” Draco’s voice is cold, and he backs away from Neville.

Neville’s eyes fall shut, and he’s not surprised that they’re filling with tears. “I didn’t—that’s not—my parents.”

“I know what she did to them. I know what was done to you. I know what—” Draco pauses, his voice cracking. “I know what was done to me, and what I did to myself.”

Neville takes in a heavy breath, eyes still shut.

“I’m not messing with you. I’m not.” Draco takes one of Neville’s hands. “I cut the Mark off my own arm, Neville. Yaxley scarred me up just as much as he did Luna—hell, even your wonderboy Potter landed some shots on me, ignorant twat that he is.” Draco snorts. “Side of the light. None of us is immune from wrongdoing. But we were kids.” Draco sniffs once. “And now we’re all a bit barmy.”

“It’s not their fault. My parents.” Neville rubs the pad of his thumb against Draco’s knuckle.

“I know.”

Neville abruptly yanks his hand out of Draco’s grasp. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

“Well, I’m not offering it.” Draco purses his lips. “If you haven’t already gathered that, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”

-

Neville sends Draco an owl two days later, a bit ashamed that he couldn’t last any longer. But the swift response mollifies him. He offers Neville a time that evening, in Muggle London, at a place Neville assumes is a club.

 

He dresses in dark denim and a Ramones tee-shirt beneath a leather jacket. He’s not a Muggle and never was one, which he knows Draco knows—but on some level he presumes this is a peace offering of a sort.

Neville Apparates near enough to their agreed-upon spot and loiters before entering the place that turns out to be a karaoke bar. “Gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, moving to the bar to get a double vodka-soda.

Draco shows up exactly on time, moving just enough into Neville’s personal space that he can feel the heat but not so close that he feels truly discomfited. “Order a drink?” Neville offers, sipping at his slowly.

Draco gets a cognac and places his hand directly beside Neville’s on the bar, without directly touching him. “I’ve upset you.”

“Not directly you,” Neville concedes.

Draco nods once, sighing. “I’m not showing you my scars without you earning that. Not officially.”

“I don’t know how to be comfortable with even—telling you about my parents.” Neville moves his hand sideways, just barely, so that his pinky finger touches Draco’s.

“You saw that I cut off my Mark.”

Neville shrugs. “I didn’t look too close.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t want to know.”

“Right.” Draco removes his hand from Neville’s. “I don’t deny what I did. Never will. I don’t want to erase it, but I want to—alter its current presence in my life.”

“Tattoo over it,” Neville suggests, lip curving up into a small smile. He curls his hand on top of Draco’s.

“Yeah? And what do you suggest?”

“A Hippogriff, obviously.” He tightens his grip, watching Draco’s eyes go bright.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinner party

“This is a ridiculous notion, you realize,” Draco says, voice clipped as he straightens his tie in the mirror.

“I disagree.”

“A dinner party is a completely irrational way to pass the time,” he protests, flicking at his fringe.

“We’re not in a Jane Austen novel, Draco, really. And if I recall correctly, your family’s hosted many of its own fine parties, no?” He has a smile in his voice, or so he hopes.

“That’s my mother. She enjoys hosting things, making things shiny and believing people are enjoying themselves.”

“You don’t enjoy hosting parties?”

“I don’t even like people.”

“Oh?” Neville’s seated on a comfortable armchair, trying not to let his feelings choke him.

Draco shakes his head harshly, sharply. “Not that many people, anyhow. Not all together like—like this.”

“We’ve invited only our friends, you realize,” Neville says, raising a brow. “Even in a big group, they’re still people we like.”

“I don’t like your friends.” Draco wanders close to Neville, looking lost.

“No?”

“Well, they don’t like me.”

“Hey,” Neville says, his voice getting a bit sharp. He grasps Draco’s wrist. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Or anxious.” His fingers tighten.

“I’m not anxious!” Draco yanks his arm away from Neville.

“I’m just—saying you don’t have to be, but it’s okay if you are.” Neville twists his lips up in a grin. “I’ve a right to be nervous too.”

Draco sighs quietly, sitting down on the arm of low armchair in Neville’s parlour. “Yes. I know you do.”

“We were children. I know that.” Neville puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“We’re still children, in many ways,” Draco adds, turning his head down, offering Neville a small smile. “Stunted. Turned by war.”

“But not malevolent.”

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Neville laughs, moving away from the chair. “All right, all right, I’m not going to sit around while you quote Hemingway to me and act melancholy.”

 _“Act_ melancholy?”

“We have place-settings to arrange, and the hare isn’t done simmering, and I also need you to go get more wine,” Neville says, ignoring Draco’s comment.

“This would all be easier if you had a house-elf or two, you realize.”

“My family doesn’t really buy into all that, you know that. We’ve—”

“Yes, we’ve discussed it, I know this, but hired help is really—”

“I can get by just fine on my own, I don’t need to hire anyone to—”

“But you deserve some help every now and again, and with the unions now, everything is—”

Neville rounds on Draco. “Stop. Okay, stop. You’re fussing over me for some reason right now and I can’t handle it. What’s going on?”

Draco gapes a bit, jaw arching down. “I don’t feel good about this, N.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“I need a why. This isn’t—it doesn’t—I need a why.” Neville’s insides have gone cold many times, and right now they feel icy.

“Why? The why is that I can’t be in a room with that many people, particularly that many people who hate me.”

Neville bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh. Now is not the time to laugh. “Babe, come on. We got reacquainted at the biggest wedding I’ve literally ever attended. And that was—”

“Early on after the war, yeah, but it was _outside,_ where I could escape to the bar and get fresh air.”

“Hold up.” Neville literally holds up a hand.

“Oh here we go.” Draco heaves a great sigh, his face pinching.

“I’m your fresh air?”

“Reading between lines again,” Draco snarls, but he’s finally smiling, just a bit, just enough.

“You’ve kind of started finishing my sentences, too.”

“Now you’re just being rude.”

Neville rakes a hand through his hair. “This is going to be fine. If it comes to it, I’ll set something on fire.”

“You do have a history of it,” Draco agrees. “Or was that someone else in Charms class? After the initial desire to loathe you all, you Gryffindors started to blend together unless I had a personal vendetta.”

“Fancy way of saying you focused on Harry to the point of distraction,” Neville mutters.

“The feeling was mutual, I think. Also come to think of it, my enduring obsession probably should have alerted me to my sexual orientation much earlier.”

“We had bigger things on. There was that trifling war, after all.”

Draco’s head snaps around, and he looks paler than usual, his face tinged slightly blue. “Harry’s going to be at this little soiree, I’ve only just remembered.”

“He’s forgiven you, as have we all. Plus, he’s brining Catriona, I told you that.”

“And I’m saying that someone that the obsessional doesn’t forgive easily.”

“Meaning?”

“Hide the sharpest of the cutlery if you don’t want to see me flayed during a pleasant dinner.”

“Enough of the dramatics,” Neville requests, but he’s smiling indulgently. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

-

“Okay, maybe there’s a little bit to be afraid of,” Neville concedes after Ron warns that he has the next day off work and plans to get at least a little bit sloshed. “When Ron gets plastered, he usually starts singing Muggle showtunes.”

“Why does he know Muggle showtunes?” Draco stage-whispers, topping off his own glass of claret, likely just for _its sustaining powers,_ as he likes to say.

“Unclear. Something about the world’s longest camping trip and the highlands of Scotland being well dull.” Neville sighs, taking a sip from his lager. “The war was hard on all of us.”

“Likely for different reasons.” Draco pulls a face, his skin still slightly blue-grey.

Neville moves closer, bumping his hip into Draco’s, aiming to offer reassurance. He’s gotten better at knowing when he succeeds where Draco is concerned, and he reckons that Draco’s more attuned to him, too.

Ron, Harry, and Catriona arrived together, with Theo and Millicent close behind. Each party brought a bottle of wine—“Catriona insisted,” Harry notes drily, rolling his eyes at the idea of social graces—and Theo brought a bouquet of orange-yellow sunflowers, which Millicent insists is thoughtful but soft. “At least bring something that won’t wilt in a few days.”

Neville snorts. “Better to bring a bottle of red that Draco will stress-drink in forty-five minutes because I forced him to have people over.”

Ron raises an eyebrow, clapping both Draco and Neville on the shoulder in a manly fashion. “Nev, this is your place. I don’t think you can force him to have people over to your place.”

Neville chuckles, watching Draco gulp like he’s swallowed his own tongue. “That’s the thing, actually.”

“What’s the thing, my darlings?” Pansy calls grandly from the doorway, clutching at Blaise’s upper arm as she tosses her glossy hair. She appears as if she’s addressing the room at large, and she very well may be. Neville’s ascertained from his brief, if increasing, interactions with her that she likes to be in command.

Draco takes a fortifying breath, clasps Neville by the wrist, and announces, “We’re moving in together.” Then he takes a deep breath and sucks down a long slurp of his wine. He jerks his head around as someone knocks on the door, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Neville squeezes Draco’s wrist once before moving to let their newest guests in. He opens the door to Hermione, Ginny, and Luna. Ginny has her arm around Luna’s waist, looking protective and fierce. Hermione’s face looks slightly flushed, but she has a box of chocolates in her right hand and a determined look on her face.

“Oh, my. Thank you so much for inviting us, it does wonders for the spirit to spend time with friends,” Luna says, brushing one finger along Neville’s chin.

“Harry came?” Ginny splutters on a laugh before ducking her face into Luna’s neck.

“And he asked to invite Catriona, yeah,” Neville says, biting his lips over a smile.

“How lovely,” Luna agrees, listing forward to enter the flat. “Neville, your aura’s looking quite robust these days.”

“Thank you. Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of water, please.” She darts her arm backwards so that Ginny can grasp her hand.

“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking, please, Neville.” Ginny requests, eyes on Luna, blinking lazily. She follows along readily.

For some reason, Hermione’s still stuck in the doorway, eyes wide and face still flushed. “All right, ‘Mione?”

Her gaze snaps to him. “Quite. Thanks. I’m so glad you invited me.”

“Of course. Come on in. Do you want some—” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Wine, yes please, I’ll get some myself.” She moves to the sideboard and sets down her gift of chocolates before moving to the kitchen. Neville watches her leave, blinking quickly. He hears another knock and opens the door to Astoria and her boyfriend Jamie, the last guests to arrive. They hand him yet another bottle of wine, Jamie shaking his hand and Astoria ghosting a kiss over his cheek.

“Ta, where’s the bar?” she asks, clicking into the room on tall heels while Jamie’s tucked against her elbow.

Neville begins to think that a dinner party was perhaps a ridiculous idea after all.

-

At half-nine, Neville determines that hosting a dinner party is the best way to get to know people ever and also the best idea, bar-none.

Draco has one hand on Neville’s leg, and they already repeated the announcement that they’re moving in together and mostly no one looked too altogether shocked.

“You’ve been together for a year,” Ron points out before humming _Shipoopi_ from _The Music Man_ under his breath.

“What he means,” Hermione clarifies, “is that we’re all very happy for you.”

Pansy raises a brow as she lifts her glass, inexplicably filled with champagne Neville knows no one brought into his flat. “And how would you know what he means? I didn’t know you could suddenly read minds.”

“Hermione could do that if she wanted to,” Harry says with a shrug, feeding Catriona a bite of his carbonara, despite the fact that she has a plate of her own. “I’m the one shit at Occlumency and Legillemens.”

Blaise groans. “Please don’t dare her to read your mind, Pans, this is not the time.”

Pansy narrows her eyes, flipping her glossy hair gently over one shoulder. “Not that I take orders from you, but I do require more wine, so please refill my glass.”

Astoria eventually notes that she’s a better-than-average Legillemens but that she hates the activity, preferring to work at Gringotts, where she eventually met Jamie. Neville’s not sure that anyone’s truly listening to her, their eyes all glassy with drink and heavy food, but he tells her that he’s very glad she enjoys her job, and he asks Jamie what he does, exactly.

He forgets within minutes what it is that Jamie does, exactly, because he gets distracted by Draco’s hand on his leg and by Hermione’s increased spluttering. He’s unused to seeing her uncomfortable for any prolonged period of time, and he’s a little ashamed to admit he finds it amusing. But his intention is to play host and so he tries to divert her attention a bit, asking about her job at the Ministry, where she’s in Research and Development of New Spells and Current Spell-Casting. She lights up, clapping her hands once, which startles Millicent, who’s seated at her left.

Hermione and Millicent eventually get into a heated, if quiet, discussion about work, but Neville remains distracted by Draco’s hand on his leg. He leans sideways, one eyebrow raised. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Bothering you? Probably,” Draco agrees, taking a sip of his drink.

“Touching me in a crowded room,” Neville clarifies, trying to give a dirty grin but probably failing.

Draco pinches his lips shut, swallowing. “I’m grounding myself,” he says, using the words that his Mental Healer’s given him to talk about coping.

“Yeah. I’m your fresh air.”

-

By eleven, everyone is completely toasted. They’ve moved into Neville’s parlour, seated on chairs and the couch and even the floor. Ron is still humming, having not yet moved to outright singing, but he has asked if anyone in the room enjoys karaoke. Draco, already pale, blanches even further.

“Just you, Ron,” Harry murmurs, tucked into a corner, nearly invisible to the room at large. He’s curled on the floor between a chair and the wall, Catriona perpendicular to him as through to shield him from the rest of them. Harry looks like he appreciates it, one finger tucked into the belt-loop of Catriona’s jeans.

Luna is in the center of Neville’s rug, star-fished across the floor, her hair a halo about her head. Ginny is combing her fingers through it, braiding and undoing it in turns.

Astoria and Jamie are lodged together in one armchair, him in her lap, talking about how beautiful it is that the stars are visible at night. Hermione, Pansy, and Blaise are seated three-apiece on the sofa, sort of melding together in a way that Draco would laughably judge if he were in his right mind. As it is, Draco coos quietly from the chair that he and Neville are both squashed into, side by side.

“Presuming he doesn’t actually start to sing, I think this thing will have been a success,” Draco murmurs, quaffing at his glass of claret.

“It’s a success either way, you know.”

Draco sighs, rocking his shoulder into Neville’s. “Yes. I suppose so.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next part of the series is Hermione/Pansy/Blaise!!
> 
> comment, critique


End file.
